Something Other Than Reality
by Zakhariahz
Summary: How hard can you fight before it actually breaks you? For love of her blood? For lust of her skin? Is it enough to have a tangible hold on him that he can't or won't break? inspired by Breaking Benjamin's "I Will Not Bow". Romance/Angst/Tragedy/Horror R
1. Title Page

**TITLE: **Something Other Than Reality _[inspired by Breaking Benjamin's 'I Will Not Bow']_

**AUTHOR: **Zakhairahz

**GENRE: **Romance/Angst

**CHARACTERS: **Edward/Bella

**SUMMARY: **'Love is not easy. Love binds you. I will not be chained to anyone or anything.' How hard can you fight before it actually breaks you? For love of her blood? For lust of her skin? Is it enough to have a tangible hold on him that he can't or won't break? RATED M FOR DARKWARD… Vampire/Human pairing. Romance/Angst/Tragedy/Horror

**READ, ENJOY & REVIEW.**


	2. Indifference

CHAPTER ONE: _'I don't want to change the world; I just want to leave it colder.'_

Dinner is a simple, customary affair and, perhaps, a compulsory one at that for a dating couple in this day and age. The woman wears a dress of some light but opaque material to achieve a look of enthralling sleekness and high-heeled shoes to give her legs a much more elegant, graceful and shapely look. She wears make-up to create a shadow of mystique and erotic appeal, her hair usually pinned away from her face but still loose to cascade around her head in an air of casual but flirtatious playfulness. The woman before me fits my perception easily, looking at me with smoky eyes and pouted red lips so rich and plump. It is not the first time that she joined me at a restaurant for a semi-formal, private soirée as such but the first time that she had worn a dress that defies modesty, flaring from her hips to a few inches above the mid-point of her thighs. Near endearing little capped-sleeves, the neckline f the garment plunges low and wide to her bust line.

Despite the drastic change from her usual evening attire, I sit unmoving, adjusting my cuff links at my wrists, my fingers of marble slipping, sans friction, from the polished tiger eye gem set in the sterling silver. I exude power in my well-tailored suit with my quiet confidence eminent in the manner in which I observe my surroundings. It is a rule of mine, one that I keep well without effort, to never smile without an appropriate situation so when our waiter arrives with a broad, foolish grin stretching his facial features near distortion, I nod curtly, gesturing benevolently towards my lady-friend. It is common curtsey and it is imperative that he serve her first. She, however, smirks in a sultry way at him, closing her menu, holding onto it even after he has taken hold of it. Her flirt is quite strategic and I am shown when her dark irises catch my gaze. With a soft, moist tongue, pink and petal-shaped, her lips are caressed at a torturously slow pace.

"I believe that I would enjoy a thick, juicy steak." She makes a point to wrap her mouth around those words alluringly. Then she offers _le garçon _a jovial wink. "Extra rare."

I can smell the sweat accumulating at various points of his body. In the charade of wetting my lips, I taste his heated lust in the air around us while my date, who can only sit and wonder about my take on the state of affairs, remains oblivious.

"And you, sir?" His voice noticeably higher and one such I cannot miss the thumping and thundering, like wild stallions, of his heart at his pulse points. My tongue darts out a second time, like a serpent, like a dragon, tasting the presence of one's prey.

"The same," I reply dismissively, folding my hands neatly on the table before me. I command the attention and the respect of the people who surround me. In a veiled metropolis where humans thrive on sex, money and suffering, I am God.

"Do you know what day it is today, Edward?" I look at the woman, blinking once in acknowledgement to her and waiting coolly for her to continue.

"Alright," she concedes with a careless roll of her eyes, "I shall tell you as I find that you would listen regardless of my manners, or God forbid, lack thereof."

Upon our arrival, we were seated in a circular booth and sat an appropriate distance away from the other on opposing sides of the table but, now, she slides to chafe her skin and skirt on my pant leg in her unabashed excitement. I frown upon her unethical proximity but cannot bring myself to be the least bit astonished. Women come to me and so it is known in the workings of the world.

"Today marks a full year of our acquaintance, Edward, darling, and I cannot say that I've had a better year." The pretty, little woman snuggles deep into side with a gloved hand, daintily clad in silver and gems lying adoringly on my chest.

"Is that so?" Tilting my head down and slightly to my right, her coffee-coloured tresses buckles under the force of my sharply pointed nose. It cut through her silken hair like a fine blade, opening her scent to me. She bathes me in the breezes that pass of fields of ripe strawberries and wraps me in ribbons of freesia. Venom pools in anticipation on my curved tongue.

"Yes," she sighs, "Never have I seen a better year nor have I come across a man such as you." If a man is what she sees e as, a mere man of folly and emotion, I must break her out of such a grievously large misconception. I am neither here nor there. I am an immortal power that exists boundless and timeless, never effervescent in retrospect, travelling through time and space, securing my hold over my witless domain. Then she says the words that tear our acquaintance apart:

"I fear that I have fallen deeply in love with."

Once more, shocked I am not, but angry? I am quite angry at the gall of her pathetic human heart and her once entertaining, romantic ideals. Love is born of the human heart and dies when I gobble down the elixir that fuels it. Love is not easy. Love binds one to something in a trio of oaths so flippantly broken on whims. I live boundless. I will not be chained to anyone or anything. If she believes she has captured my affections, it would be no great task to prove her wrong. One of my stature and my seniority must not respond to a conflict with obvious emotion. In true Casanova fashion, I pluck her hand from its perch, holding the glove at the top of her middle finger to slip the accessory from her hand. I am sure to catch her jewellery before it clatters anywhere. The key to being a great manipulator is to allow the enemy or your victim as is this woman, infuriating but delectable, to nourish the idea that one is giving what they so desire. One must respond accordingly and act in a similar manner, else, one fails; failure is never an option.

My tongue sensuously wraps around the forefinger I have exposed, lavishing it with attention to make her vulnerable. She feels love and I torture myself into wanting blood even more. Her form ripples under tremors of pleasure as my teeth gashes her supple, giving flesh,

"I love your blood," I murmur around the, now, twitching digit. She is salty sweet in my mouth, flowing willingly and seemingly relentless under my encouraging suckling. I suckle on her finger like a babe at his mother's bosom. She gasps my name which can only mean that her fingers are going numb. She can still blush at my heavy-lidded eyes of a burnished gold like an innocent yet wicked temptress. The hunger flares in my throat, demanding more and my arousal is growing stronger and more prominent with each passing flare of dry fire. We sit in silence, though we both yearn for passion, wild and uninhibited, waiting for the waiter who had just exited the kitchen to set the plates balanced on his palms before us. The, dare I say, aroma of the burnt, denatured blood wafts over to our table, not entirely unpleasant but still sufficiently insulting to cause wrinkles and furrows to my nose and brow.

"Enjoy your dinner." It is not difficult to note the waiter's pulsing disappointment when she offers no smile or wit for him to take hold of to carry him through the night. He ebbs away into the distance, still disheartened by the icy indifference of such a fair, warm, young belle. I will not care if she sees him nor will I care if she initiates some sort of torrid affair but she will, guilty and ashamed, come crawling back to me. I succumb to noting aside from my blood lust and desire for a woman's body. This female, I would have tonight, in my mouth, in my bed, in every physical way; she shall be ravaged until I am satisfied.

"Will you join me after at my apartment for maybe some coffee?" she asks breezily, slicing into the steak. Mine sits untouched for a small time before I, decidedly, using just my fork, cut the bloody meat into a number of even slices.

"I must feed again, tonight." I wonder what she will think of it, just how desperate she is for my intimate company later on in the evening. A look of adamance flashes in her eyes and it is perfectly conspicuous; the want she harbours for me. She purses her flaming lips temptingly but I hold my ground against the urge to bite into them.

"You don't wish to join me?" She sounds snotty but insulted and her tame fury is quite, if not very, desirable.

"Will you feed me?" I inquire in a light but business-like tone. I have never been thwarted by my use of reverse psychology.

"Will you fuck me?" She uses the same tone as I did. Perhaps, this is why I keep her; her bravery to determine what she wants and her drive to make it hers. A sliver of my steak is speared on my fork and almost to my lips but I lower it carefully, signaling our waiter. My date looks at him with a rekindled fire in her eyes, confusing him with her emotional switches and he will mark it off as hormonal but I, however, know of my influential nature.

"Is something the matter?" His eyes are lingering on her and she answers him cryptically but seductively. "Yes, we must take our leave. I am required to…attend to my date." There is a smirk playing and twitching at her lips. "Have the valet bringing Mr. Cullen's car to the front immediately."

"Yes, miss." The young man wastes no time, dashing away from us, plates in hand.

"Are you eager?" I pull her to my side, my other hand kneading the soft, un-toned flesh at her knee. My hand slips under the fabric to her hip juncture.

"Why must you play with me?" Her voice is low and breathy, fraught with steamy desire. My nails are fairly long and I press one into the slit that parts her lace clad lips, hooking my finger to scrape her damp skin.

"Because I can and I will. Is that understood?" I am humble enough to admit that the control I have over this feisty, little specimen drunken me slightly. She is very pliable in my hands.

"Yes," she whimpers, my finger repeatedly scraping at one spot, "It is clearly understood." Her heart is hammering with much alacrity and harshly so, her pulse visible at the side of her neck.

"Admit it little girl," I sneer very closely to her ear, my breath thrumming against her pina, "you're entirely enamoured with the concept of having a sadistic lover. You like being controlled, no matter how much you fight against it." I am drunk, completely, on this feeling pulsating through me in a havoc of gleeful realization.

"Yes, Edward, control me." She lunges at me, giving into herself, going directly for my lips. I lift my head, baring my neck, but she is not deterred. Nevermore beautiful is anything when compared to a lust-driven woman and my date does not disappoint. Her lips smudge a bloody trail up to my jaw where she entertains her fetish and feasts on the flesh there before taking my lips for a heady kiss. Her tongue is sure in my mouth as she presses on, hell-bent on trying to keep up with my deep, probing kisses. It is ironic that she bites my lip, tugging and sucking it into her mouth but it is most certainly sexy and damned further I will be if I said that it does not make me harder. Sensing that she will continue if I do not thwart her now, I push her away, casually, from me. "Edward, more please." Her fingers are clawing at my clothing, getting a firm purchase on my lapels and tugging.

"It's not becoming of a young woman to beg." I scold sternly, brushing her hands from my jacket, and then with a lower voice, devoid of emotion, I whisper, "We play by my terms."

"Your terms," she repeats at the same volume with a flush the colour of anticipation high on her cheeks. I look at her and she seems innocent to a shrouded gaze - like the waiter's who is running, keys in hand, to tell me that my car waits. I beckon for her to stand, rising fluidly with her. With a brief glance at my watch, I see that she has set a new record; twenty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds, breaking her prior record of fifty-five minutes and twenty-six seconds. It seems that the duration of our public meetings grow shorter and shorter, and I, who revels in this, do not make any complaints.

"Edward?" We are exiting the restaurant. Cordially, I adjust her coat so that it is higher on her shoulders to offer more protection against the biting cold of the night around us.

"Yes?" Her eyes are fixated on the sharp planes of my face, her scrutiny tracing it until I find her to studying my lips with the most intensity.

"Why don't you smile?" Her voice is as sad as her musings are pathetic. I pity the poor human feeling for being subjected to owning such a romantic soul.

"Why do you smile?"

I've never hit a human female, no matter how angry or hungry – as the case may be – I am and I do not intend to ever do so but I have no tolerance for disrespect; none what so ever. She looks at me coolly, squaring her shoulders and lifting her peaked chin rudely. "Because I'm not a heartless bastard who thinks logic and power are the begin all end all of the universe."

A rumbling, growling laugh rips from my chest and I feel my face splitting maniacally into a joyless grin. "My dear, your sense of humour is quite delightful, wonderfully bitter and petty." The fear on her face is quite evident and I smile wider at my inability to disappoint. "Now here I was thinking we were both adults."

"Edward," she whimpers, hiding her face in her hands which I pull away.

"No, my dear, don't hide your face! Did you not want to see my smile?" The anger is hot under my skin and, dare I say, in my loins. Her genuine fright makes the fragrance of her blood even more potent and aromatic. It swirls into my nostrils and shoots through my senses sharply. Her budding tears only fuel my fire. "Crying?" I sneer, dubiously, tapping my forefinger to my pouted lips, "like I said, I thought we were adults, give or take an extra physical year on my part. Seriously, my dear, is seventeen a man?"

Her fear mingles with a morbidly curious surprise. "Seventeen?" she repeats stupidly, her eyes frantically flickering over my face and the she really begins to cry. She sobs quietly. "Oh, Edward, I'm sorry to have disrespected you. Please don't be like this! Please! It frightens me so."

A dry, humourless laugh leaves me at her blubbering. More savage than suave, I grip her upper arm and guide her into the passenger seat of the Vanquish. Once I am seated beside her, still grinning, I say in a gravelly voice, "No, my dear. You've acted poorly and now you must suffer the consequences of your actions." I take off down the street, deriving pleasure in each thump of her head on the glass at each turn. Her fingers are locked around the edge of her seat. It is only when I pull up in front of her apartment building do I say, with nonchalance, "You should wear your seatbelt."

"Yes, Edward," she replies in a small, rodent-like voice. As per usual, she waits for me to open her door and help her from her seat. Visible under her hair is a small bump from where she repeatedly hit her head. I part her hair as best as I could and lick the bruise until it shrinks and disappear, nuzzling the spot afterwards to indulge my senses for a moment.

"You can't go around hurting yourself like that," I chide lightly, licking her scalp again for good measure. I am still very agitated but I remain in a calm façade and hold my gentlemanly nature all the way up to her apartment. When the door closes, she is mine, at my mercy – completely, wholly and without question – but I feel out of my element this time. It is unorthodox and a acrimonious feel, it creates abhorrent tastes of copper on my tongue but nothing has changed in her abode. Everything I as I left it since my last visit and the air is heavier yet with the silky scent and tastes of her skin, her breath, her sex…

Oh, her sex…

The flavour of it – hot, wet and sticky – permeated the room, emanating from the bathroom. She masturbated before she came to meet me. This smile, I find, has made home upon my visage but why not when merriment awaits me between her legs and in her veins? "You touched yourself," I sing-song mockingly, "How naughty!" Her scrumptious blush retreats when she pales under my cruel observation. Slowly, rocking my head from side to side, I circle her with a feral gait, so sickeningly pleased with my aptitude to make her want me enough to touch herself. "Why?" I purr, ghosting my fingers over the fine curve of her back. She grabs my arm and breaks me out of my circuit, causing my eyebrows to raise high into my forehead. "Did I tell you to touch me?" I demand flatly.

"No-"

I cut her off sharply, "Then don't." Her hands fall away and I continue but my command doesn't stop her from speaking.

"I touched myself because I wanted you…" Purring starts loud and smooth at the back of my throat. "…to make love to me." This last bit comes out hesitantly.

"Don't you mean fuck you?" I quip breezily, running an uncaring hand through my thick, auburn mane. God forbid she repeats those abominable words again.

"No," she squeaks and I know what her next words are but I don't stop them out of morbid curiosity or urges to reciprocate, I am unsure. I am terrified of this. I am terrified of her and her mortal heart! Such a flimsy thing causes such great problems.

"I meant what I said. I wanted you…" She takes a deep breath. "I wanted you to make love to me."

"Love?" I whisper, filtering my fingers through her exquisite silken locks, "What does the human heart know of love?" And I can hear the answer to my outright arrogance singing in my mind as I should have expected that it would: "Everything," she echoes my thoughts broken-heartedly. I stand unmoving now, even more fearful of her romanticism with mildly defeated shoulders. Is it possible that I hear shackles rattling in her teary voice and see a gleam of metal in the silver glimmer of her tears?

"The time for me to love has passed and, as I am before you, I am a creature of dark desire."

"Bullshit!" she yells bravely, throwing her arms wildly into the air and a feral growl builds in my chest, rumbling viciously indignant at her foolhardy valiance. However, I must commend her clear perception. Her fists clench at her sides and the tears littering the rim of her eyes look more residual that budding. My fear feels much more akin to insecurity and my anger turns inwardly at my subconscious act of masochistically bruising my pride by indulging her. "You're not a monster, Edward, you aren't."

"You may know of love." Her breasts heave into my chest with her accelerated breathing. "But you know nothing of me."

She does not drop her forceful gaze, fury locked upon her countenance. Never have I had a female challenge me. It is an insult to be as a male of my grade. It was inconceivable that one could pose and opposition against not only my bidding but against my self-perception! Yet, I move not to reprimand her. My instincts preach that I kill her, break her pretty, blaspheming body and my mind rivals it strongly, fiercely berating me. I am torn, confused. My voice judders barely and I am very dubious that she can hear them. "You cannot say that I am not. What proof have you?"

Unexpectedly, she throws her head back, exhibiting the slender column of her throat. Like a needy fool, I draw a line up her neck with the peak of my nose. I recede as she lowers her elfin chin. "I can say that you are not, dear," her whispers are warm and soft, "because I am a romantic and I hope without cause, because I am hell-bent on finding the good that I know is there in everyone." She must be scared for her heart hammers and her fingers twitch. "Even a dark vampire like you."

It must be duly noted and she should be recognized for her insistence. Under the guidance of her hand, my own found its palm flat against the thumping of her heart under her breast bone, my fingers bent and splayed with fingertips on the top of her curvy cleavage. "It matters not what you think you are. My heart won't let you be a monster." Humans are trusting. She is so beautiful with her large trusting eyes and despite the issue of our conflicting feeling, all I want is for her to touch me. For the first time in many decade, my thoughts move in erratic, incoherent directions and I feel just as lost as I had when I woke up to red eyes and a searing burn in my throat. One should always have a sense of what is beneficial to their well-being, be it physical, mental or emotional. With this in mind, I take my hand from her chest and use the fingers of that self-same hand to knock her chin up.

Chastely, I kiss her crimson lips and take my leave.


	3. Frustration

CHAPTER TWO: _"Light the fuse and burn it up."_

I do not see her again against the insistence of something buried, rooted deeply, within me. The days, they pass first in a dragging tedium that is even more unbearable because I can almost taste my self-pity in every breath I take. My pretty fascination shackled me; without my knowledge or consent, she shackled me to constant, flowing images of her taunting elegance and fairness. I am shackled and the flavour alternates from self-pity to a ferocious loathing for her. It is seemingly a much healthier option to develop a distaste for her than to pine like a lovesick fool and fool I would not let myself become. The idea in itself was obnoxious and unbecoming. What has she done to me?

I grimace; hatred has a bitter taste.


End file.
